He did not answer her. He was busy with his own thoughts. He began to realise that he loved her more than he had supposed men ever loved. It seemed pitiful that she should suffer thus.
"Daphne saw the light from her room and hastened me over," said the Squire, hurriedly, yet in that whispering awe which comes upon men in view of a tragedy.
"He must be in his room," Derwent said, looking at the broad sheet of flame licking the front of the house. Then he suddenly left them, going in the direction of some outbuildings.
Daphne, fascinated with the horror of the scene, clung to her uncle and moaned and prayed. The wind caught her hair and blew it about sportively. The trellis-work crackled and burst in the heat.
"Derwent has gone for help," said the Squire.
"What help can get here quickly enough?" she wailed. "Oh, Jack, Jack, my darling!"
Presently Derwent appeared, moving slowly. He was dragging something. It seemed very heavy. When he came into the light they saw that it was an old ladder, a primitive, rough ladder, very strong and very heavy.
He moved forward. The weight was great, but he was a strong man. Twenty years of heavy work had firmed his muscles.
"Come!" he said to the Squire, "this is stout, it will last longer against the flames."
The old man helped him rear it against the burning casement of the bedroom. A shower of sparks fell upon them as they did it. One fell upon Derwent's eye, and he swore as he brushed it aside. He had wanted all his sight for the work he had before him. He did not care so much for the pain, but the blindness which disabled one eye was serious.